


Use Your Head

by BlushingDragon



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, One Night Stand, de Launcet AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-05-21
Packaged: 2019-04-17 16:18:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14192865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlushingDragon/pseuds/BlushingDragon
Summary: Do keep a grip and don't--(Ever ever ever crack)Take a dainty sip--(Never ever turn your back)





	1. Best Regrets

Evangeline de Launcet held her head high and stared blankly ahead while trying not to scowl at her father. Her birthday festivities as the firstborn, and only, daughter of the Comte de Launcet involved an hours-long banquet and even more hours of dancing. By this time, her feet ached from the Orlesian torture devices Mother called shoes and her head pulsed where her blonde curls were pulled up into an artful twist. But with an icy smile and a brittle temper, Evangeline kept pace with her father while her richly colored skirts swished in time with the formal Orlesian dance.

"Please, daughter, may we have a smile? It is your birthday, Evangeline," prodded Guillaume de Launcet.

"It is my twenty-fourth birthday, yes. I have not forgotten, Father," she replied. Her tone was bland enough to be polite but a spine of steel could be seen behind her grey-green eyes. The Comte sighed as father and daughter completed their last circuit around the ballroom, and closed his eyes briefly.

"I know you don't like it now, Evangeline, but you may change your mind. Your mother did, after all," the comte cajoled.

Evangeline wondered briefly how blind her father was not to see the cold, closed-off parts of his wife, but she kept silent on the matter. If Evie was lucky, whomever she'd been saddled with could be easily persuaded to leave her to her own devices. If not... well, best not to think on it. She sniped in return, "Have you checked his heritage for magic, Father? I'd hate for the poor man to come down with the same predicament you and Mother found yourselves in."

Predictably, the comte stiffened at the reminder of the mana that flowed freely through his wife’s bastard's veins, and that any child of the Amell line would likely be the same. However, after he cleared his throat, he spoke with almost uncharacteristic firmness.

"Given that his family has ruled Starkhaven for six generations without incident, "the poor man" as you say has my approval. He may surprise you, you know."

For a brief moment, she could only stare at her father incredulously. The Starkhaven Vaels were willing to marry one of their sons to a Kirkwaller? One whose parentage was Orlesian on one side and peppered with mages on the other? Evangeline could hardly fathom what the Vaels must be thinking, and what possible reason they might have for making such a concession.

Eventually, finding her voice, Evangeline murmured, “I’m surprised already, Father. Any more and I might faint dead away in this blasted corset.”

“You will be meeting Messere Vael tomorrow morning, daughter. Don’t do anything tonight that you might regret,” the Comte instructed sternly.

She smiled only enough to be considered polite, and replied blandly, “I wouldn’t dare, Father,” before executing a curtsy and drifting away. As the lady of honor she couldn’t really melt into the shadows as she wished she could, but the edges of the crowd did well enough for her purposes, especially when a head of dark blonde hair below most eye levels caught her attention.

“Varric!” cried Evangeline. “I didn’t think you’d actually make it tonight.”

The de Launcet’s financial advisor and Evangeline’s best friend grinned up at her.  “And miss your birthday bash, Princess? You know I would never, and _you’d_ never let me hear the end of it if I did.”

Evangeline quirked an eyebrow up in satisfied amusement. “You know I would,” she agreed. Lowering her voice slightly, she continued, “What do you say to getting me out of here, Varric? If my feet are tortured for much longer, I may just commit treason against the Comte and damn the consequences.”

“Well, we can't have that,” Varric muttered through a laugh. “Follow me, Princess. We’ve got everything arranged for your big night.”

Pretending for all the world that they were merely engaged in conversation, the two moved slowly around the room until they could slip out onto the open balcony. Evangeline shut the glass door behind her, a wide smile on her face, while Varric revealed a knapsack hidden strategically behind a pot of climbing ivy.

Evangeline snatched up the satchel and made a playful shooing gesture with her hand. Varric held up his hands with faux-innocence, and began climbing down the wall of the Hightown mansion. Once the dwarf’s head disappeared over the banister, Evie made quick work of shucking off the expensive blue taffeta dress and gold-tipped shoes. She pulled dark leather armor out of the knapsack and deftly slid into it, breathing easily for the first time that night. The dress and matching corset were shoved ruthlessly into the knapsack, which was again stashed behind the pot and covered by the draping plants.

By the time Evangeline reached the ground, she was rolling her shoulders back and shaking her blonde hair free of its merciless updo. An impressed whistle made her roll her eyes at her shameless pirate friend, and Isabela shrugged as she stepped out of the shadows to stand next to Varric.

“I will never tire of watching you climb down that wall, sweet thing,” Isabela declared with a smile.

“I won’t ever tire of getting out of that house,” agreed Evangeline wholeheartedly. She clapped her hands together, letting a too-wide, too-sharp smile cross her face. “Let’s do something I might regret, come morning.”

* * *

At the Hanged Man, after a few rounds of drinks, Evangeline’s glance was drawn to one of the unfamiliar patrons sitting at the bar. A bow was sensibly slung over his back, but the white lacquered armor reflected the light like a beacon. With his back to her and facing the bar, his face was kept hidden, but Evangeline appreciated the view she did have of his calves and thighs under the leather he wore.

Beside her, Isabela hummed thoughtfully. Leaning into her, the pirate murmured, “Now _that_ is something you’ll love to regret. You’ve got taste, Hawke.”

The sound of her apostate father’s name brought the sharp smile onto Evangeline’s lips more than Isabela’s comment, but she relished the dark warmth purring in her stomach as she stared at the archer. She spoke with her carefully-practiced Fereldan accent, “That armor, though. Very… shiny. He might be a noble or something.”

Varric laughed into his cups at the very thought. “A noble in the _Hanged Man,_ Hawke? What are the chances?” he asked with exaggerated incredulity.

“More likely than you’d think, Varric,” replied Hawke through her laughter.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her archer shift in his seat slightly, and she realized the sign of a bar patron starting to leave, and before her window of opportunity closed, she leaped.

Sidling up to the archer, she got the bartender’s attention and gestured to the two of them with one hand before turning to face her target of seduction properly. She was met by the most startling blue eyes she’d ever seen, with one dark red eyebrow cocked in confusion.

“And what do you think you’re doing there, serah?” asked her archer. His voice was colored with a warm brogue that she couldn’t place, but it sent a tingle down Evangeline’s spine.

“Buying you a drink, Ser Archer,” she answered. “Corff’s swill is better when shared, I promise.”

At that, his lips turned up at the corners and that arched eyebrow gained a particularly roguish slant. His fingers skirted the top of the tankard he held, and Evangeline felt torn between watching those supple fingers and looking away from those eyes. The almost-smug glint in the blue depths told her that he knew damn well what kind of sparks were skittering across her skin.

“Then I suppose I’ll just have to take you at your word, Serah…?”

“Hawke,” she supplied. For a moment she feared that her archer would ask for another name, or if that was a first or last name, but to her relief, he only nodded slowly, and offered a name of his own.

“Kenneth.”

Like her own name, it was surely fake, but Evangeline liked the way syllables felt in her mouth and so she accepted it. Corff chose that moment to set their drinks in front of them, and as she wrapped her hand around the cup, Evangeline grinned.

“To good company?” she proposed.

“I’ll drink to that,” he agreed.

Hawke was glad that her hand did not tremble as she tipped back the tumbler, although a flush that had nothing to do with alcohol made her shiver. She felt the weight of those blue eyes tracing the curve of her throat as she swallowed, and Evangeline hid her smile behind the cup.

In the safety of her mind, she made another toast. _To the best regrets._


	2. Chapter 2

Evangeline drowsily traced imaginary lines across the planes of Kenneth’s chest. Her own skin felt almost as if it was glowing where he pressed against her, and she could see the satisfied curve of his lips highlighted by the low candlelight of the Hanged Man’s back rooms.

Kenneth’s warm brogue softly broke the silence. “Any regrets?”

A shiver ran through Hawke, both from the effect of his voice and the very real fear that this small dalliance would come back to haunt her. Attempting to laugh off the feeling, she remarked, “That is a remarkably serious question for the fun we were having, isn't it?”

A rueful light shone off of his so-very-blue eyes. As he snuggled her closer, warmth ghosted over Hawke’s skin as he murmured, “Indulge me, please. If nothing else, I wouldn't mind having my ego stoked by a lady like yourself.”

That word “please” and the gentle way Kenneth held her was very sweet, and she was almost tempted to reward him with the truth about herself. Evangeline buried her head in the crevice where Kenneth's neck met his shoulder to hide the high color that rose up at the thought.

“I’ll regret that I cannot do this again,” confided Evangeline. “I’m meeting my betrothed in the morning.”

Her false Fereldan accent had slipped away like a secret lover in the night, and she could feel Kenneth stiffen under her touch. “You’re Kirkwall nobility?” He asked.

Evangeline nodded slightly, guiltily relishing the feel of her forehead against his skin. “I’ve been told he’s some kind of minor royalty, but for all I know Father is just trying to lull me into complacency. He may be a conniving status seeker, but at least he never wants to worry me.”

She didn’t know if it was a conscious decision, but she felt Kenneth’s fingertips tracing tiny circles into the skin of her hips. One of her arms wrapped around his shoulder, and be it cowardice or not, Evangeline kept her eyes closed and her head turned into the crook of Kenneth’s neck.

His breath ghosted across the skin of her ear. Kenneth said, “I should hope that you have nothing to worry about, but I understand you apprehension. I hope he makes you happy, Hawke.”

“I don’t think anyone’s ever told me that before,” confessed Evangeline. She had raised her head up as Kenneth spoke, and to her chagrin, hot tears began to well up in her eyes. She instinctively ducked to hide her face once more, but gentle, calloused fingers held her cheek.

Kenneth thumbed away her tears, smiling tenderly. “Everyone needs to hear a few kind words now and again,” he murmured. His tone was nonchalant, almost breezy, but the brightness of his tone did not reach his eyes, and Evie’s heart clenched in sympathy.

“Then you ought to hear this, Messere Kenneth: you’ve been a Maker-sent blessing all night, from your kind words to the rather delightful time we had before.” Evangeline shifted her weight to her forearms and leaned up to almost straddle Kenneth and look him in the face with a fiercely happy smile.

There was a sad light in his bright azure eyes, but he smiled in return.

“We should be getting back to Hightown,” replied Kenneth, and the next few minutes consisted of scrambling for discarded clothes and armor as both he and Hawke pretend not to see the faint pale blue creeping up on the horizon.

To Evie’s chagrin, both Varric and Isabela were waiting for her in the Hanged Man’s tap room when she emerged with Kenneth, although “waiting” was perhaps a stretch of the truth. Varric had at some point succumbed to the allure of sleep, and his face was buried in the crook of his elbow and resting upon the table. Isabela on the other hand, had propped up her feet on the table and was rolling a coin over her knuckles in an effort to keep herself entertained. The only sign of the pirate’s fatigue was the way she shook her head as if to clear it of cobwebs.

At the arrival of the lovers, however, Isabela perked up immediately and jabbed Varric in the arm with one of her feet. Mindful of the crowd of drunks left over from the night before, the pirate raised both of her arms in silent congratulations, and Evangeline half-heartedly glared as Kenneth chuckled quietly beside her.

“I apologize for my poor taste in friends,” drawled Evie, although a grin creeped across her face.

In a faux-whisper, Isabela cut in by leaning between Evie and Kenneth, “She doesn’t know what she’s saying. I’d best get her back home, right, Hawke?”

For a breath-catching moment, her hand spasmed in its grip around Kenneth’s, reluctant to let go. Their last night was a dream, but not one meant to last. Evangeline deliberately slipped her fingers out of those of her archer, and smiled with what she hoped was sheepish chagrin.

Kenneth smiled like he understood, with his blue eyes more than with his lips. “I wish you the best, Serah Hawke.”

“And- and to yourself,” replied Evie, her Fereldan accent added almost in an afterthought.

With a jaunty two-finger salute, the redhead turned on his heel and walked off into the early light. Evangeline didn’t realize she’d been staring until Isabela cleared her throat next to her and startled the young noble out of her reverie.

“It’s was that good, was it?” Isabela asked cheekily.

“Shut up, Pirate.”

* * *

Although Isabela walked her back to the estate, the climb back into Evangeline’s bedchambers was hers alone to make. It was a higher climb than the ballroom balcony, and with little sleep and even less sustenance at such an early hour, Evie’s fingers and her faith that nothing would go wrong were both shaking.

“You’ve done this hundreds of times, Hawke,” she scolded herself. “Once more probably won’t kill you.”

Her worries didn’t help the strenuous climb, either. Despite the early hour, the most terrible situations felt plausible. Templars would be waiting for her at the top, her betrothed, or worst of all, her mother. She’d be cold, dressed in pale blue or grey or lilac, with lips pressed into a firm line and her face pale with disappointment and resentment.

Evie had heard in stories that Leandra Amell had been daring, lively, and happy. After only a few hours as Leandra Hawke, however, her wings had been clipped when her brother told their parents about her dalliance and the baby. Evangeline had never seen her mother daring or lively, and she’d had to pester Uncle Gamlen for years to tell her why Mother was so cold.

No one waited for her on her balcony, and she paused long enough to sigh with relief before swinging her leg over the railing. Evie crept on her toes across cold marble, having taken her boots off for silence, and eased the doors open. No creaking hinges betrayed her, and upon seeing her room empty, Evie began shucking her leathers and packing them in the very back of her wardrobe, making a mental note to ask Varric for one of his minions to get the acrid scent of the Hanged Man out of them.

The slim line of sunshine beginning to peak through the curtains told Evie that scant hours remained until she would be sought out by her maids and her mother. She settled into her thick coverlet and murmured in a voice heavy with exhaustion, “Might as well use the hours wisely.”

Her last, unformed thought before unconsciousness wished good dreams on a blue eyed archer. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve set Sebastian’s character at a place in between Wild Boy Seb and Choir Boy Seb, and it’ll be more fleshed out in the next chapter.


End file.
